protect this house
and all who live
behind this door
from
the darkness of ignorance
from
unkind words and thoughts and acts
from
complacency of mind and spirit
from
sad and vengeful ghosts
from
forgetting
love
photo and poem by clinock
Doors
light (angel)
Doors opened in light.
Light arrowed
to winged promises
of flight.
Floating.
Falling.
Rising.
By this illusion of paint
and light
beacons are ignited.
Old desires,
not yet too rained upon
to catch a spark,
burn, fierce flaming
for my remembered
fallen angel.
They are not all
as they appear to be,
the angelic ones.
Some wear paper wings
easily dissolved by tears and time
or ashed by fires of passion.
Some wear cardboard halos,
pinned carelessly to fragrant hair,
creased and crushed by kisses.
She was not at all
as she appeared to be,
my angel.
Her moonlit votive
melted in the sun
blistering the heart
with burning tongues of wax.
Her skin absolved mine
with scents of white lilies.
Her fingertips traced
ecstatic ascensions to heaven.
Her miraculous eyes,
a mirage of turquoise lakes
in an empty desert,
blinded all seeing
like god at high noon.
Photo and poem by clinock.
Stars in my Eyes…
I have Stars in my Eyes because recently two of my nominees for Blog of The Year award bounced the award nomination back to me. I am so honoured by this gracious response from : Ina at Ina http://inaweblogisback.wordpress.com and from Philippa at Seascapes Aus. http://seascapesaus.wordpress.com
Under the ‘rules’ of this particular award this means that I am able to add two more stars to my award badge. I’m not certain of the criteria that the originator of this award had in mind after the first star. I do know that I would rather not redo the initial process every time as I would just be repeating myself. Instead I am making up my own rules for this. Although the award asks us not to change the rules I am actually not doing so – I am simply adding to the rules.
I have decided that each time I receive another star I will re-post something relevant from my archives – dedicated to those who nominated me. So today I dedicate to Ina and in a day or two to Philippa.
Ina’s poetry of everyday life, mortality, emotions and relationships between woman and man move me so much and open so many doors for me that I have chosen a poem and photographs from my archives called Doors. This is dedicated to you Ina, with loving thanks for your art and creative humanism.
Doors.
Doors locked against me, keys lost, combinations forgotten.
Doors too small to allow me into the garden of beauty.
Invisible doors that wait for the magic word, the secret sentiment, the correct alignment of the planets.
Doors that open onto warm rooms filled with welcoming friends.
Doors to new worlds that lock behind me, preventing return.
Doors that crumble to dust at the first knock.
Doors that grin hideously with ghost faces of the past.
Doors that glide open on oiled hinges revealing birth canals.
Doors that scream defiance, rusted to their frames.
Toy doors to toy fortresses that swarm with stiff, and indifferent blonde warriors.
Iron doors to cells that refuse to let go.
Charred doors, sentinel to ashen skeletons of burnt buildings.
Doors that open, whispering, before my raised hand.
Doors to flowered gardens where children and washing laugh and dance.
Doors that support the old ones as they painfully lower themselves onto steps they do not trust.
Doors of childhood, opening, as magician’s hands, to smells of cooking and warm protection.
Red doors that part with the gentlest of touches, absorbing every sense and semblance of self.
Endless doors that open onto worlds of separate and mysterious lives.
Doors of weathered wood hiding white-washed courtyards and sweet fountains.
Tiny doors-within-doors that purringly become cats.
Carousel doors turning through eternity, their glass reflecting celluloid clowns who can’t escape the turning.
Castle doors, heavy with centuries of blood and fear, opening to cloaked and fanged darkness.
Cottage doors guarded by roses and knitting grannies.
Studded doors of armored timbers, four times the height of men, revealing breathless beauty.
Modest doors, one-eyed with moons, promising relief.
Doors washed in angel blood, promising sanctuary.
Arched and door-less doorways beckoning like wombs, promising sleep.
Back alley doors signed by leaking dogs and spray cans.
Doors collecting coloured light with stained and liquid glass.
Doors protected by bronze beasts, carved stone, and silence.
Trompe-l’oeil doors beckoning with nose-flattening deceit.
Doors of perception that open too slowly to show the whole picture, then slam in your face at death.
Doors of understanding that swing wildly in the winds of change.
Doors that lead to endless labyrinths of desire.
Mothering doorways that embrace the cold and lonely homeless.
Doors protecting, with technology and the terrible teeth of dogs, the riches of the spoiled.
Doors that wave goodbye as we step, suit-cased and dreaming, into the river highway of forever.
Poem and photography by Clinock
Doors
For those of you out there with a Door fetish, I have just updated my Photography Gallery for ‘Doors.’ There’s an intro poem followed by Door photos from Mexico, Italy and Morocco. Even though the subject among photographers has tended to become so pop as to be cliché, I still find so much symbolism and metaphorical meaning in ‘Doors’ that I can’t help myself. So if ‘Doors’ happens to be a passion of yours, check out my offerings. Yes, I am a Doork…!
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